


Vigil

by Johns_Farthings



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Episode: s01e07 Horrible from Supper, F/M, Keeping Watch, Swearing, mentions of episode-related suicide and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28918884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings
Summary: He sees her leave Goodsir's tent.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Terror Bingo fill: Watch Duty

He sees her leave Goodsir’s tent.

Blanky still takes his turn at watch, despite the pain in his leg. The thing may well be the death of him, but he’ll be damned if it stops him doing his duty. 

Tonight's is a strange vigil. He had been at the other side of the camp when Morfin began his tirade, but he is not yet so slow that he had not seen the end of it. The blood looked worse on the shale than it might have on the ice, chewed up with the stones. Messy. He cannot think of a better word for it. The whole thing’s a goddamn mess.

He bites the end of his pipe and inhales, watching the ember flare in the darkness before him. The camp sleeps, despite what has happened, canvas moving in the wind like breath. It’s good, to hear that. Reminds him that they’re not ghosts yet. Not quite fucking yet.

Even in the uneasy calm of a night reaching its end, he nearly misses her. Her feet make almost no sound on the shale, but he catches the shine of her hair in the moonlight as she slips among the tents, the crude roads and alleys they have built for themselves in this great, cold nothing.

She knows he is there. He is not trying to hide, and neither is she. He knows where she has been, sees it in the set of her mouth, the sharp glint of her eye as the glowing cinder of his pipe lights her face. He had seen the state of their doctor as he was led away, barely able to put one foot in front of each other, shaking like his skin could no longer hold the fleshy parts of him inside. A child, overwrought from a long day. 

Goodsir has seen people die before, but it seems he hasn’t yet got used to it. Perhaps that says something about him.

Says something about her, too, that she’s here. Let her be of comfort to him, if she is kind enough to do it. He will not begrudge either of them. Even if he did, the man is their only doctor. They cannot afford to lose him if they are to make it home. Blanky won't, of course. He knows deep in his hurting bones that he will not be leaving this place. But some may, with luck. That’s all they need. A little luck, a little hope. Despite it all, they have hope.

He makes no move from his post. She stares at him in the cold moonlight, weighing him in her gaze. There is sadness about her, but severity too. He knows that if he were to try and confront her, she would not be stopped. Soon it will be dawn, and she clearly intends to be far from Goodsir's tent when it breaks. Her watch must end before the others are awake, even as Blanky's must continue.

He lowers the pipe a fraction, inclines his head. Her mouth twitches. Then, quiet as a cat, she turns and vanishes amongst the streets and houses of the camp. 


End file.
